


With Storm and Fury

by carma19



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV), Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Witches, Women in the Military
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26701960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carma19/pseuds/carma19
Summary: In an alternate America where witches ended their persecution by cutting a deal with the U.S. government to fight for their country, 19-year-old Fixer witch Beca Mitchell reports to Fort Salem for basic training in magical combat.
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	With Storm and Fury

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to be familiar with Motherland: Fort Salem to understand this fic. 
> 
> TW: one mention of mass suicide.

_Whoosh!_

Beca stepped out of the used book and records shop and gasped, jumping back as a skateboarding kid damn near took her out. 

“Sorry, lady!”

_Lady?_

Beca glared through thick eyeliner as he zoomed down the sidewalk. “Little twerp,” she grumbled, holding the four new vinyls she’d purchased closer to her chest. Puffing out a hard breath, she started down the sidewalk, moving to fasten her bulky headphones over her heavily pierced ears when her phone buzzed against her right ass cheek.

Frowning, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and unlocked the screen to read her text.

**(206) 477-9403**   
_It’s bad again. Can you help?_

“Shit.” Beca checked the time. She had an hour before dinner--the last one with her dad for a long time. Scrolling up, she checked the address and mentally calculated how long it would take her to get there on foot before texting her reply.

_25 mins_

After buzzing into the brickfront Seattle apartment building, Beca trudged up four flights of stairs, slightly winded by the time she knocked on apartment 5C.

The older man greeted her with a smile. “You made it. _Thank you_.” He led her through the living room and into the bedroom.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Beca muttered, her cool expression softening at the sight of the older woman writhing in obvious pain. “Hey, Mrs. Higgins.”

“Beca, dear,” she said, mustering a watery smile as she blinked up at her. “It’s so good to see you.”

“We know tonight’s a big night for you,” Mr. Higgins added. “Any help you can provide--”

“No problem.” She set down her bag packed with her vinyl records as she eased onto the chair beside the bed. “Let’s see it.”

Mrs. Higgins raised her pajama shirt to reveal half her abdomen covered in angry, blistering skin. 

Beca rubbed her hands together before reaching out, taking one of Mrs. Higgins’ hands and hovering her other palm a few inches over the diseased site. She closed her eyes and began singing the ancient song in a low, hauntingly beautiful tone.

_Ask and it shall be given you;_   
_Seek and ye shall find;_   
_Knock and it shall be opened unto you;_

A pained grimace twisted Beca’s expression and she hunched over in her chair, focused on the shrinking wound on Mrs. Higgins’ stomach. Despite the pain now searing on her own abdomen, Beca continued.

_For every one that asketh receiveth;_   
_And she that seeketh findeth;_   
_And to her that knocketh it shall be opened._

Relief washed over Mrs. Higgins’ expression as she squeezed Beca’s hand.

_For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever._

Mrs. Higgins glanced down at her healed, healthy skin, a disbelieving chuckle puffing free. “Thank you, Beca.”

“Sure thing,” Beca said, pulling up the hem of her vintage band t-shirt to reveal that same blistering wound now throbbing on her own abdomen. “It’ll fade soon enough,” she assured Mrs. Higgins with a tight-lipped grin. “I gotta get home.”

“Good luck to you at Fort Salem, dear,” Mrs. Higgins said, giving Beca’s hand one last squeeze before releasing.

“We’ll keep you in our prayers,” Mr. Higgins added, offering a wad of 20 dollar bills.

Beca clapped Mr. Higgins on the shoulder. “Thanks, but keep it. This last one’s on me.” 

She let herself out and made her way back to the apartment she’d called home ever since her mom died two years back. Since her dad couldn’t bear living in their suburban home filled with so many family memories.

Beca ran her finger over the keyhole and muttered a soft spell to unlock the door, too lazy to fish her key from her bag. “I’m home,” she called, toeing off her high top Converse and making her way into the living room.

Her dad frowned at the TV, the news reporter’s words shooting a chill down Beca’s spine. 

_“The Spree are once again claiming responsibility for today’s terror attack at the Mall of America, where hundreds of shoppers leapt from the second and third floors to their death.”_

“You’re gonna have to fight these people,” her dad said, running his hand over his face. “These--magical terrorists, whatever they are.” 

“Yeah,” Beca said, dropping onto the couch and snagging the remote control to click off the TV. “And anyone else the army sends me to fight.”

Dread twisted in her gut, immediately followed by a rush of guilt. All she wanted to do was run off to LA and start paying her dues in the music industry. But her family’s legacy--passed down from her mother and her grandmother before that--sealed her fate since birth. 

“I have something for you.” Beca’s dad pulled a small box from his pocket and handed it over.

Beca opened it, carefully pulling out the silver bug-shaped pin. “A grasshopper?”

“It was your mom’s,” her dad explained. “Her combat charm. Passed down from your grandma. It’s supposed to keep you safe in battle.”

“Oh yeah?” Beca absentmindedly traced her grasshopper tattoo, lifting her eyes to her father. Her mother had always had a weird affection for the insect. “So why didn’t it keep her safe?”

Her dad shrugged, casting her a sad smile. “She wasn’t wearing it on her last tour. She left it behind, for you. Almost like… she knew she wouldn’t be coming home.”

Beca set her jaw, swallowing back the emotion welling in her throat. 

“You better come back to me in one piece, kiddo.”

“It’s just basic training,” Beca said with a shrug. “They won’t send us on real missions until after that, at least.” 

“Training’s plenty dangerous in and of itself, based on what your mom told me. Whether or not you get into War College…”

Beca fought the urge to roll her eyes. If she made it through basic or not, she’d be a military pawn regardless. War College would increase her prospects but only prolong the inevitable. 

“I’m pretty hungry,” Beca said, hoping to change the subject. “Can we order pizza?”

Her dad thankfully didn’t push the subject, forcing a smile. “Sure thing, Bec. Whatever you want for your big night.” 

They ate dinner in relative silence, enjoying each other’s quiet company while keeping a close eye on the ticking clock. 

At 8:58, Beca steeled herself. “It’s almost time.” Taking a drink of water, she moved into her bedroom. Her dad lingered in the doorway behind her. 

As the clock struck 9:00, a floating burst of magical energy appeared in the center of Beca’s bedroom, crackling in the form of a golf ball sized fiery orb, illuminating the space twice as bright. 

With her father looking on proudly, Beca took a deep breath and fixed her gaze more steadily on the sparking sphere hovering in the air, then she spoke the words seared into her brain since before she fully understood the weight of them. 

The Oath.

_“I, Beca Mitchell, do solemnly pledge to deliver myself to Fort Salem for training. To harness the powers that are my birthright and join the military of the United States of America. To defend my country against all enemies foreign and domestic. I will faithfully serve and obey the rules and articles for the government. All secrets keep. All lawful commands willingly performed as dictated by the Salem Accord.”_

Beca held out her palm and a round copper dog tag fell from the flame, weighty and warm. The US Army seal shined on the front, and when she flipped it over, it read:

_Rebecca Mitchell_

_Pvt. 1st Class_

***

The next morning, Beca’s dad pulled up to the curb at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

“Want me to walk you in?” he asked, pulling her backpack from the backseat and handing it to her. 

“I’m good. Thanks, Dad.” Beca hesitated before stepping forward, hugging him tighter than she ever remembered. “You gonna be okay?”

“If you’re okay, I’m okay,” he said, pulling back with a beaming smile. “I’m so proud of you, kiddo. I know your mom would be, too.”

Beca pulled her lips inward for a beat, fiddling with the hem of her plaid shirt. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You will. You’ll do great things. It’s in your blood.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Call me when you’re settled in.”

With one last hug, Beca entered the airport. She waited in line and stepped up to the check-in counter, biting her lip. “I, um--I don’t have a ticket, but I think I’m supposed to--” Pulling the military ID medal from around her neck, she held it up to the airline stewardess. 

The woman behind the counter gasped. “Oh! Yes, of course. Let me see what we have here…” She hastily typed at her computer. “Our next flight out to Boston is fully booked, but there’s a seat on a flight a bit later--”

“I’m on the Boston flight,” a white-haired man called from the line behind her. “The young lady can have my seat.” He offered his ticket up to the airline worker to make the transfer. 

Beca blinked, her cheeks warming as she spun around and smiled at the generous old dude. “Seriously? That’s… super cool of you, sir.”

The man removed his cap and bowed his head. “It’d be an honor. Thank you for your service.” 

Behind him, a young girl with chestnut curls stared wide-eyed at Beca, tugging at her mom’s hand. “Mom, she’s a _witch_.” Reverence laced her breathy tone. 

The girl’s mom flashed a warm smile at Beca. “That’s right, and she’s going to protect us.”

“From the Spree?” the little girl asked, a worry creasing in her brow.

Beca turned to the pair and nodded, her stomach flip-flopping at the several sets of eyes now focused on her. “Yeah, from the Spree.” She hitched her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll take ‘em down.” 

“Here you go, Private Mitchell.” The flight attendant handed Beca her boarding pass. “Have a safe trip to Salem.” 

Beca saluted the attendant, thanked the man who gave up his seat for her once more, and tossed a warm wink at the little girl. 

Then she headed toward airport security to officially begin the end of her life.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Chat and connect with me on Tumblr @ scylla-ramshorn :D


End file.
